


All Good Things to Those Who Wait

by ShatteredSilhouette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Gen, Jim from IT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 06:36:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShatteredSilhouette/pseuds/ShatteredSilhouette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ah, how long he had been looking forward to this. He could have remained at a distance, but the temptation – the pure curiosity – was too strong for him to resist. Moriarty's thoughts behind the encounter in the hospital lab during "The Great Game".</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Good Things to Those Who Wait

**Author's Note:**

> Another, very different, take on the brilliant if insane mind that is Jim Moriarty. From what I see, he has not only many faces, but many mindsets, because in order to create a disguise, one must act not only the outside but in the mind as well - especially if one is to fool Sherlock Holmes.
> 
> A scene from "The Great Game", à la Moriarty. Allow me to introduce 'Jim from IT'.

_Patience._

It was something he had not always had, but he had learned very quickly that a plan without patience is a reckless decision, and a reckless decision is at least seventy-five percent sure to go wrong, eighty-five if it is a weak plan to begin with. The fifteen or so percent left over was not a number he cared to play with unless he had no other options – and he always kept a back door open.

Right now, patience was key. It had been patience that had spun the transformation into 'Jim from IT', patience that brought him face to face with shy, insecure Molly Hooper, and patience that had picked, ever so delicately, the fragile lock to her heart and slowly ferreted out her hopes and her fears and her trembling, impossible love for the man called Sherlock Holmes.

_Sherlock Holmes…_  His lips barely moved as they formed the words, savouring them. The great consulting detective, the man he had been watching eagerly and remotely for months, and the one man, perhaps, who would give the opposition the chance of a level playing field in this dark and deadly game. Ah, how long he had been looking forward to this. He could have remained at a distance, but the temptation – the pure  _curiosity_  – was too strong for him to resist without a great deal of effort. He needed to see, to  _observe_. He wanted to look into the eyes of this man and discover there a pale, self-righteous reflection of himself.

Absently, he shot a quick glance down along the hospital corridor. Empty. Nothing yet, but she would be returning here soon, he was sure, and that would be his cue. He slipped back around the corner and leaned his head against the wall, tapping a slow rhythm against his leg as he stared up into the too-white lights of the ceiling. With his other hand, he fingered the bit of paper in his pocket upon which he had written Jim's number –  _his_ number. Waiting.  _Patience._

He heard her footsteps approaching a moment later – low heels, light tread but slightly rushed. Typical, for here. He had been able to tell early on that the hospital was one of the few places in which she felt comfortable; she never walked like that anywhere else, even if she didn't know it. Molly wanted to feel needed, needed to feel wanted. She was stronger than she appeared, and didn't even realise it. He found that rather funny, actually.

If patience was everything, timing was second best, and he timed it perfectly. The door to the lab was just closing when he rounded the corner again, and he immediately fell into the hurried, half-nervous gait of Jim – Jim who had caught a glimpse of the sweet girl from the morgue and just wanted a private word about their date tonight, Jim who was still unsure and needed to double-check everything so that nothing would go wrong. This time, he did not simply have to act like Jim; he had to  _be_  Jim.

Jim, of course, had no idea that Sherlock Holmes was in the lab.

He pushed the door open just wide enough to slip inside, then stopped short, one hand still clutched around the cold metal handle. "Oh – sorry," he stammered, voice soft, looking in faintly embarrassed surprise from Molly to the two men by one of the lab tables. "I didn't – "

"Jim!" Molly's voice was a degree or two higher than usual as she looked around. "Hi – " Her hands came up, half-raised by her waist in a flustered sort of defence.

He smiled, anxiously, with the air of someone who isn't certain where he is supposed to be but thinks it might not be here. Even as he met Molly's gaze, though, he was looking just past her, and the eyes behind Jim were taking in every detail of the man at the microscope.

The first thing he knew was that his disguise had held; Sherlock Holmes had looked up, seen him, presumably analysed him in the space of one or two seconds, and had dismissed him again. Perfect. Jim was now ordinary – ordinary and uninteresting, and not worth a second glance. He would be forgotten the moment he left the room.

Pretending to feel encouraged at Molly's hushed call of "Come in – come in – ", he closed the lab door gently with both hands before turning back to her and taking a few hesitant steps across the room. Sherlock had said nothing, his concentration back on whatever slide he had under the lens of the microscope, but his posture had not stiffened or indeed changed in any way despite the advent of a stranger and a clearly unwelcome intrusion. If he was annoyed, he hardly showed it. Apathetic? Not quite. Jim just wasn't worth the attention.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John Watson – it had to be Doctor Watson – shift his weight a bit uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He was agitated, his eyes and mouth tightly set. But discomfort because of what? Ah – the interruption itself, perhaps. This had happened before, then: an intrusion, an unneeded distraction of some kind, and judging by the way the doctor's eyes flickered warningly toward Sherlock when he thought no one was looking, the detective had not acted well.

Molly had scarcely paused for breath. "Jim," she went on, her face slightly flushed, "this is – Sherlock Holmes."

Anyone else would have missed the way she paused, just barely, before the name, or the fact that she only  _seemed_  to be looking at Sherlock, when in reality the littered table top was getting most of her attention. He made a quiet, slightly astonished sound of recognition at the introduction.

"And, erm…" Molly hesitated with an apologetic glance at Doctor Watson, who closed his eyes for a moment in what was probably resignation. "Sorry – "

"John Watson. Hi." A nod, exasperated. Interesting. So it was more than the intrusion that was bothering him.

He spared the doctor a brief glance, friendly but distracted by the presence of the man he – and Jim – had heard so much about. To be honest with himself, the distraction was not entirely feigned. "Hi…" he replied, already looking at Sherlock again, who was seated just a few feet away. They were all looking at him, actually, clustered in a semi-circle behind his back that he seemed determined to ignore.

"So you're Sherlock Holmes," he went on, nervously touching his hands together in front of him. He continued to smile, his tone a little breathless. "Molly's told me all about you – are you on one of your cases?"

Still there was no response. He had expected none, but he wondered how far he could push things before he triggered a reaction.  _Look at me, Sherlock Holmes. Look at me and show me how good you are. Can you know me with a single glance?_

Deliberately, knowing it would annoy, he slipped past Molly and circled around until he was almost level with the detective. There was a computer moniter just to the left of the microscope; as he passed it, he chanced a fleeting glance at the screen and felt a little twinge of pleasure when he caught sight of the grayscale windows of results. Sherlock was already on the right track.

In the second that followed, he gave the detective another deceptively casual look, this time taking in the pressed, well-fitted jacket, the light but expensive purple, collared shirt – it really was a good colour on him – the oddly careful yet relaxed manner with which he held himself. An intriguing man. A man so confident in himself that he no longer felt the need to prove it, to his acquaintances or to anyone else in the world.  _Oh, yes, we are alike_. Already he could see it.

Behind him, Molly was talking again, with stumbling, unnecessary explanations in an effort to cover up her surprise. "Jim works in IT upstairs – that's how we met. Office romance." Perhaps without realising, she leaned in slightly toward Sherlock as she said it, and the eyes behind Jim turned upward.

_She_ thought it was romance, at least, and it seemed to make her feel better even when it really didn't. False confidence. A weak and unconvincing attempt to sound at ease and in control. She laughed, half-heartedly, but he did too, in that nervous sort of way that Jim had. Jim wasn't comfortable talking about their relationship in front of strangers, but he was too polite to say anything. Polite, unassuming. There were days when he really couldn't stand Jim.

He waited.  _Patience._ And then,  _finally_ , Sherlock looked over.

A foot away, and he could feel Jim being taken apart in an instant.

"Gay."

The part of him that was  _not_  Jim started laughing silently in a little corner of his admittedly twisted mind. This was better than he had hoped for, really it was. Poor Jim had been reduced to nothing more than Molly Hooper's mistake, but then, he had never had much of a chance to begin with. What was even funnier was that Sherlock very clearly didn't care if he had said anything wrong. He had turned back to the microscope again, as though that were the end of the matter.

Molly's smile had dropped from her painted lips very suddenly. "Sorry – what?" she said, shaking her head and probably hoping she hadn't heard correctly, like feigning ignorance would actually change something. Naïveté at its best.

A flicker of annoyance passed over Sherlock's features. "Nothing," he amended quickly, in a tone that suggested he was only saying it to speed this encounter along to its conclusion. "Erm – hey." And he twisted his head around, giving Jim from IT a tight and utterly insincere smile.

This time, their eyes locked – only for a fraction of a second, but it was enough for him to catch a glimpse of someone behind that false smile and realise the possibilities that were opening up in this new game.  _Oh, but you are good, aren't you, Sherlock?_ Even throughout this dull and tediously inane conversation, Sherlock Holmes was concentrating on the puzzle. He would not be distracted from the problem that had been set before him, because the problem was what he lived for, and if you didn't have anything to live for, you had only two options: you got bored, or you just stopped living, literally or otherwise.

Of the two, he often thought boredom was less preferable.

"Hey," he replied, with another hesitant and hopeful smile – hope which he immediately dashed as his hand came down, with calculated precision, on a curved metal dish sitting at the edge of the table just in front of him.

It clattered loudly to the floor even as he made a clumsy attempt to catch it. "Sorry – sorry – " he said quickly, his voice suitably shaking and embarrassed. Coordination had never been Jim's strong point. He felt Sherlock's eyes on him again, a look tinged with something close to contempt. Well, at least he had managed to touch a nerve. That apparently took some doing.

His expression faintly mortified now, he straightened and shoved the dish back in its place – quickly, as though afraid he might knock it over again in another second. He was careful to be just the tiniest bit too obvious, though, when his fingers slipped the bit of paper from his pocket to the table underneath the dish. If Sherlock didn't notice  _that_ … but of course he would.

"Well, I'd better be off," he added hurriedly, trying to breach the awkward silence that had ensued. Rubbing his arm uncomfortably, he gave Sherlock a last nervous glance before looking to Molly again. "I'll see you at the Fox – 'bout six-ish?"

"Yeah," she agreed, but not quickly enough, and in her open face he could read all sorts of little doubts that Sherlock's pronouncement had given rise to.

He placed a hand, light and apologetic, on the back of her lab coat, and felt her tense slightly at the touch. "Bye…" he said. It was directed toward Sherlock, though – a last-ditch attempt to gain favour with Jim's idol – and even Molly Hooper wouldn't be ignorant enough to miss the fact. "It was nice to meet you…"

Silence again, awkward and expectant. He really was enjoying this too much.

Doctor Watson was the one to eventually speak up, seeming to realise after a few moments that Sherlock had no intention of wasting any more time on the matter. "You too," he said shortly. The look he shot at the back of Sherlock's head was amusingly eloquent.

Carefully trying not to look hurt, Jim from IT dithered for a moment before recognising defeat and dismissal. He put on a brave shadow of a smile, but a second later his gaze dropped and he turned away. As he passed Molly, he heard her breathe a tiny, whispered "bye" that she wasn't even convinced she meant anymore. But that was the game: pawns in every round, and it was the pawns who had to suffer the losses.

Halfway down the hall outside, when he was certain no one was looking, he allowed himself the barest of smiles. It had not been a wasted effort, he reflected, as his mind recalled the face and voice that were the brilliant Sherlock Holmes. He was satisfied.  _It's been a pleasure, Sherlock. You don't know, but I do. I know you now…_

Moriarty's smile widened faintly, twitching at the corners of his lips in a futile struggle.

_Patience. Enjoy my puzzles. I'll be watching you._


End file.
